The Skinner: The 54th Hunger Games
by bethyreddingrocks
Summary: Does anyone remember the male tribute from District 9 who tried to drown Peeta in the Quarter Quell? He was a person once, like all the victors. He had people he loved and wanted to protect. He tried to erase the memories of the arena with two or more substances. This story covers his life from his Reaping for the 54th Hunger Games to his unfortunate fate in the 75th.
1. Fight

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything about the Hunger Games. I'm only doing this for entertainment for me and hopefully others! :) **

Even before her breath tickles the side of my neck, I feel my mattress sag from an unbalanced exertion of weight.

"Wake up sleepyhead," she croons sweetly in my ear, nudging me gently to cut my body free from all ties of sleep. But when I refuse to move from my snug fetal position, her warm body slowly gravitates towards mine. I suppress a smug smile when her firm breasts press up against my face, wondering how my body temperature could climb so suddenly as my body is taken over by an explosive tingling sensation.

I'm deciding whether I should still pretend to be sleeping or just given into my body's desires and reach up to kiss her when I feel something warm and wet on my cheek. I instantly recoil with disgust. The girl laughs. My eyes instantly snap open at the sound of her voice, but it's impossible to see clearly as my pupils dilate painfully to absorb the sunny interior of the bedroom. Once the bright white dots swimming in my vision have all dispersed, I can finally process my surroundings, including my overnight guest sitting at the foot of my bed. She's sticking her tongue out at me teasingly, like a small child taunting me with an expensive new coat. Her wavy dark brown hair is a frizzy mess, several strands plastered to her sweaty forehead. But the foot she runs up my bare calf is icy cold.

"Cyanna, put some socks on," I complain, burrowing my face into my pillow.

"Why?" Cyanna teases. "Are you afraid of my cold feet?"

"Ha ha," I mutter sarcastically. Although my eyes are closed, I mentally make an act of rolling them.

This mockery of our no-strings-attached sexual relationship is a routine we've executed every day since we were fifteen. Although she makes me feel things that no other girl has or ever will when we're together intimately, Cyanna and I have remained nothing more than friends for the past three years. In fact, we've been best friends since we first met at six years old on our first day of school. Our friendship began as forced, at first because we had no other choice. Both of our families were considered to have "undesirable bloodlines", so we we are shunned by the members who uphold District 9's ridiculous chaste system. No matter our determination or skill, we have always been the lower rungs of the social ladder and live under most everyone's noses. Because no one talked to us, we soon began seeking each other out for answers. Unfortunately, as people, our personalities fell on opposite ends of the spectrum; we could hardly engage in a civil conversation without screaming and throwing sharp objects at each other for twenty minutes beforehand. But eventually we filled the gaps left by our differences with an irrevocable bond that had squished our mismatched hearts into one unit that beats stronger now because of it.

Cyanna is peering down at me curiously. And I think to myself I love the color of her eyes, and if I had to pick my favorite color, I'd pick the azure blue of Cyanna's irises. "What are you thinking, Daniel?" she asks carefully.

I realize more time has elapsed since I last spoke than I originally thought. It's a good thing extended periods of silence and blank stares don't disturb Cyanna, because I have a tendency to drift in and out of my head. I smile up at her. "Just that you're beautiful," I tell her seductively, although the honest undertones in my voice are nothing less than subtle.

I can feel her smile against my lips as she kisses me. She pulls back from me after a minute, scrutinizing me with a certain softness in her features. I'm returning the stare and extending my arm automatically to cradle her cheek in my hand. For once she doesn't pull away. Her fair, freckled skin is soft like silk but much warmer. She reaches up to my hand pressed against her face and brings it to her mouth so she can brush each finger with her lips. It's an affectionate gesture, and I'm almost ashamed to say I'm baffled by it, because Cyanna has never been one for goodnight kisses or spontaneous embraces. Intercourse with Cyanna is passionate and wild, with reckless kisses and touching drunken bodies with abandon. There's never any holding hands or cuddling or even a candle-lit dinner beforehand. A bottle is passed back and forth until are minds are hazy and we're reeling towards the bed. Then I'm ripping off her blouse, popping buttons in my haste, and lifting her body down onto the mattress. Sometimes I even forget to take my shoes off before we begin rolling around in the sheets.

"You really think I'm beautiful?" She whispers, her voice suddenly shaky and clouded with doubt.

I frown at her somberly, clasping the top of her arms firmly. Although her body's strong and steady, I can still feel a slight trembling in her bones that makes me choke on my swollen heart. I can't help but feel worried about Cyanna. She's always been the levelheaded one of the two of us, and when something makes her upset, my emotions instantly spiral off the tracks. When we're in too deep with debt, I'm the one panicking and fretfully yanking at my hair in some sort of tantrum-like, inconsolable state. But she always knows what to do, and she can do anything she sets her mind to in a calm and sophisticated manner, because that's just the kind of person Cyanna is. I admire her toughness, the way in which she talks so confidently that she intimidates men a head taller than her. So I'm surprised and honestly a little fearful of the sudden vulnerable look in her eyes. Cyanna is passing into my hands an emotion so raw and heavy that I'm afraid I'll drop it and shatter it to pieces. I'm uncertain and nervous, feeling like I don't fit in my own skin, because I don't have the knowledge or experience on how to fix it. I don't know how to take care of myself, so how could I begin to possibly console her?

But in the long seconds it takes me to formulate a response, she starts to think I was just lying to make her feel better. More tears gather at the corners of her eyes and threaten to spill over her lashes. And I hate myself for hesitating, because I do think she's pretty. I'm not lying. I'm not.

When I do finally manage to pull an answer from the scattered thoughts in my mind, it sticks in my throat like stale bread, and I almost have to cough to force the words up and out into the air. "Of course I think you're beautiful," I stammer, the skin on the back of my neck flushed. I can hardly go a second without blinking, and I think the darting of my eyes around the room to advert my gaze from lingering on Cyanna's red-rimmed ones is a mouthpiece of my discomfort and anxiety.

For some reason she accepts my wobbling, sloppy confession as the truth, and I watch her mouth curve up into a smile like the sun breaking through storm clouds. "Thank you, Danny," she says graciously, almost in relief. She halfheartedly tries to hide a sniffle by pretending to sneeze into her elbow.

I've never thought of Cyanna as something delicate, so all of her sniffling and tenderness and fishing for compliments has me scratching my head. Because she has never needed another person's words to make her feel good about herself, especially in her line of work. Around her fifteenth birthday, she began sleeping around with the more well-to-do men of District 9, especially the flesh-hungry Peacekeepers who's oath forbids them to wed, for the extra money needed to purchase luxuries such as lard, soap, and lighter fluid. Since then, she's warming a different man's bed every week, crawling in and out of houses early in the morning with her tights ripped in all the wrong places.

But I love love love her anyway.

I love how she slowly started to come to me after rough nights with callous men. I'd patch up her wounds and apply salve to the darkest bruises, no questions asked. I would tell her about my day as I helped her wash off her client's fleas and cheap cologne. Eventually, the comfort of my words was also given to her through my lips. I wanted to show her that physical contact wasn't a dirty thing, but I was never dominant in bed with her. I always let her initiate any intimacy, never pushing it or insisting it was done a certain way because that would be too much of a trigger of all the foul things other men make her do. I let Cyanna come to me and make the decisions, and I happily found my body as well as my mind served as an outlet for all of her painful emotions.

Cyanna pushes herself up off the mattress, untangling herself from the thick of blankets wrapped around her. When the last sheet falls away from her torso, I'm suddenly aware of how nude she really is. She saunters over to the bedroom window, throwing it open to ventilate the musty room. She raises her arms over her head and stretches her long, pale body as the cool morning breeze settles on her skin. I sit up to watch her, but all that exposed skin and the defined curves of her hips has my veins contracting and expanding as my blood boils into a fiery, intense lust.

She turns to face me, and when she sees me hastily pulling the blanket over my legs, she laughs, "Is little Danny blushing?" Her mouth is twisted into a smirk, but there's still a gentle smile shining in her eyes. Ignoring the open window that reveals our indecent state to the public, she walks over and sits next to me on the bed again, and it's a struggle to keep my gaze from dropping from her eyes to her naked chest. The expression on her face is thoughtful as she trains her eyes to the ceiling, and she wets her lips with the tip of her tongue like she always does when she's grappling on how to express an idea in her head.

I'm imagining Cyanna dressed in a transparent silk robe with a crown of deep purple flowers as luscious as her lips intertwined in her hair when she finally looks at me again. My mental image of her is still nowhere near as stunning as she is now, real and present and still riddled with bedhead and drowsy eyes. "I just wanted to thank you for what you said before." She says, taking my hand in hers almost shyly.

And I'm thinking to myself again how out of character this is for her. I can't help but wonder why she's acting so strangely this morning, but I don't care enough to investigate. This is the closest I've felt to her in months. Sharing a bed for one night with a brief moment of vulnerability when you're getting undressed is so much different than actually just getting close to someone you care about and talking. I can't even begin to explain how the latter is infinitely better.

I'm tentatively wrapping my arm around her shoulders, squeezing her to my side. "I always think you're beautiful. In fact, I even thought you were the prettiest girl I'd ever seen when I was only seven. Remember? I was so jealous of your attractive looks that I tried to cut off your hair to make you even with even with everyone else?"

"I remember that!" Cyanna giggles, punching my arm playfully. "You were such an ass, but you did grow into a good man. Eventually." The sincerity in her voice makes me want to smile or cry, I'm still not sure. I think Cyanna feels the same way as she dabs at her eyes to check for any traces of moisture on her skin. She absently traces the diamond pattern of the bed quilt for a minute or two before she finds the courage to speak again. "You know, you're the only man who's ever told me I'm beautiful. Well, without the motive to take me home for a couple hours, anyway."

I flinch at the mention of Cyanna's broad history of lovers, and my heart aches. The many memories of strange men years older than my best friend with their lips on hers and her hands balled in their shirts hungrily like she wants to tear the fabric apart to reveal the flesh beneath has me breathing deeply to quell the anger I feel at the disgusting slobs of men who could take advantage of a teenage girl. But I'm more concerned about Cyanna's physical as well as mental health, because she's the one who stands out on those sleazy street corners and waits and waits for an overly eager escort to take her home with them. She's the one who lets them treat her like she's a worthless toy to twist and bend and break. I wonder if there will ever be a time when I won't have to worry about my best friend every moment of the day she isn't by my side. It terrifies me to consider there may be a time in the near future where she'll just completely break down and I'll lose her forever. I'm terrified she'll never be the bride she's always wanted to be. It pains me to think about the wedding veil she has tucked away in a painted wooden box that she may never get to use. I'm terrified her idea of marriage has been corrupted by all that she's had to with her body, because something so beautiful and permanent shouldn't be seen as filthy and degrading like the middle-aged man's grey stubble Cyanna has had to pretend she enjoys on her young skin. I hate that she does this to herself. I hate it, and I wish there was something more I could do besides holding her and mending the external wounds that I can reach. She deserves more than this. It isn't living, doesn't she know that?

It takes Cyanna's cobalt-smooth voice to talk me down from the anguish that's so heavy it could send my knees buckling if I were standing."Danny," she says firmly, and I hear in her voice the strong and disciplined Cyanna I've always known. "You can't always retreat into your head when I say something that upsets you. Stay with me, please. Just listen to everything I'm about to tell you. It might not make you happy now, but I promise it'll be worth it in the long-run."

I can't dispute her logic, so I'm scrapping all those vile mental snapshots of Cyanna lying half naked on a double bed as she kisses a sweaty and trembling Peacekeeper's shoulder. I look at her intently, to prove my ears and mind are open.

I readjust my sitting position so my back is reclined against the wooden bed frame, getting comfortable as I prop my feet on a pillow. I pat the space next to me invitingly, and then Cyanna's curling into the side of my body, resting her head on my shoulder. And I love how this feels so natural, the way in which I tuck her head under my chin and hold her close. She's silent for a couple moments, and when the words perched on the edge of her lips finally take flight, the sound almost reverberates off the walls like an echoing scream in a stone cavern.

"Today's Reaping Day, Danny."

Those words paint vivid pictures of previous Games I witnessed: countless screams of children, gory knives plunged in the earth around the Cornucopia, an axe with a wickedly gleaming handle burrowed in a tribute's sternum. Then there's one especially horrific scene that stars a fifteen-year-old girl fighting unconsciousness as she stumbles through dense woodland with blood gushing out of a wound at her left temple. She was dead in a matter of minutes.

I forgot about all of those things up until the day the threat of my chance of being Reaped is hanging over my head. Somehow, the things you see through a screen just aren't real to you until you consider just how close you might be to staring your worst fears face to face. And with Cyanna's declaration of the Capitol's most anticipated "holiday", I'm reminded of just how many paper slips have my name in the boys' glass Reaping bowl.

Twenty-five.

Twenty-five too many.

But tessera always comes with cost. Still, I'm scared suddenly, anxious about my future, about my chances of being picked for the Games. It takes a minute of backpedaling my thoughts to firmly order myself not to panic, because I did what I had to so Cyanna and her disabled brother could have those tokens worth a meager year's supply of oil and grain. I did what I had to so I could feed the only semblance of family I have left.

"You forgot, didn't you?" Cyanna asks flatly. But whether her voice is toneless either from her struggle to conceal her hysteria or just because she's simply angry at me, I can't decide.

I'm staring forward at nothing, lost and dizzy and sick to my stomach as I watch as the pink-tinged morning light is scattered off of swirling dust motes. "No," I dissent, "I didn't. Maybe I just didn't want to remember the mass murder of twenty three children."

Cyanna sighs in what I assume is frustration, though I can't be certain because my eyes are angled at a different direction so I'm not looking at her expression. I'm too nervous that I'll do something stupid like begin weeping if I see her face.

Cyanna begins slowly, "I think it's wrong to completely erase the Games from your memories."

Her words make my heart skip a beat, and then I'm recollecting myself with a cold, contained fury. "So you're saying we should treat the Games like the Capitol does? Like winning the lottery of inevitable death is something that should be celebrated? Hundreds of children are dead now because of fifty-seven years of those bloody arenas and their bloodthirsty Gamemakers! Think of the pigs who prepare us for slaughter and laugh as the losers' throats are slit! It's sick, Cyanna! And you're trying to defend it? You want to give them the satisfaction of knowing we enjoy it as much as they do?"

I feel Cyanna's nails dig into my shoulder, drawing blood that clings to my skin like beads of sweat. Somehow, the pain serves as the coolant that diffuses the bomb in my chest. Like clockwork, the wick burns up an additional several centimeters with every beat of my heart, but it doesn't matter anymore because I feel nerve endings tingling and nails slowly retracting from their bloody indents. Cyanna's shifted her position so she's sitting in front of me on her knees, the heels of her hands pressed into my thighs, demanding I look at her.

I do, and I'm staring into wide blue eyes. Blue that's calm and rational and stern. It's funny how one color can open my mind back up so easily, almost like it's the one and only switch. I guess my mind's not as complex a circuit as I originally thought; because just like that, I'm willing to listen to her again.

Cyanna scrutinizes me for a moment, hard-pressed to see if anything she says next will set me off on another tangent. She weighs her options but decides I'm stable enough.

"What I meant when I said we should remember the Games isn't that I believe it's right to glorify someone's ability to take another human's life during desperate circumstances. And I completely understand why someone might choose to forget all of the horrible things that happen in that arena. It's easy to blame the Capitol for the districts' suffering - the starvation, the disease, the poverty. It's easy to have one distinct enemy for all of Panem to hate. But when twenty-four of the districts' children are trapped in an enclosed area and forced to fight each other to the death, you're reminded that there are enemies even amongst yourselves. Because there's only one winner, and each district wants one of their own to make it out alive. Not to mention the tributes are more willing to kill each other rather than lay down their weapons. The districts of Panem are divided, and twenty-three children die a preventable death because of it. Danny, I know it's painful to think of all the girls and boys who died before they had the opportunity to make their life mean something, but just hearing those canons as another fellow tribute falls reminds all of Panem that we have to confront our own conflicts together before we can even acknowledge our greatest enemy. The deaths of all those children serve the purpose of uniting us. It may take several years, maybe generations, before everyone in the districts catches on, but eventually the loss of our nation's children will encourage people to step up and unite to end our suffering. We have to remember our fallen tributes in every baby step we take as a society. Because how else are we going to make every drop of blood lost count?"

Is Cyanna right? Can we really hate an authority as a whole if we're always turning on each other and murdering our own in their most vulnerable state? In the Games, it isn't just the Careers ruthlessly killing. Even the children from the poorer districts are to blame for the brutal fatalities in the arena. They all charge to the Cornucopia for a weapon not to just defend themselves but to also kill. Everyone just wants to save their own skin. They don't care who they'll have to slaughter for victory.

The districts are divided.

I feel like I could scream at the top of my lungs until my voice is hoarse because mankind is so fucked up and it isn't fair.

Or maybe I'm so upset because this is nothing but old news.

I've been thinking in silence for several minutes when Cyanna clasps our hands together and consumes the empty atmosphere with more words. "I worry about you, Danny." She says softly, almost to herself.

I laugh bitterly, "Cyanna, sometimes I think my mother's still haunting me through you. In fact, is that a gray hair I see?" I lean forward playfully to inspect her perfectly brown roots, but my eyes are still burning and I have to clear my throat twice so I can swallow the thick lump of sadness congesting my airway.

Cyanna's palms slam hard into my chest, and my entire body is shoved back into the headboard. There's a dull throbbing sensation as my neck whips back and the base of my skull cracks against the wood. I'm more surprised than injured by her sudden violent outburst, but my voice still comes out offended and hurt. "What the hell was that for?" I ask, rubbing my sore head.

Cyanna's given up trying to lie peacefully next to me, and has taken to fretfully pacing the length of the room. Her muscles are coiled, as if for a fight, and the tension in her body is so potent it seems to emit from her like seismic waves. When she halts in the middle of one long stride and turns to face me, her eyes are narrowed into slits of fury. "How many times is your name in there?"

My voice sounds small and meek like a child's when I answer, "Twenty-five."

Cyanna's fingers flex as if to hit me good and hard again, but they clench into a fist that hangs lamely at her side. I can see her teeth grinding painfully to channel her anger, and I almost plead for her to stop because it's no use for her to get upset over this. The odds are stacked higher against me, anyway. I'm seventeen, and everyone knows outlying districts like 9 aren't the most secure places to live. The number of starving children applying for tessera gets higher every year as the yield of crops decreases with each passing season. It also doesn't help that I have no parents to help me pay the bills or put food on the table. So naturally, there are more slips of paper with my name on them floating in the pool than most other boys. But in the end it all comes down to chance, like rolling a dice. The sides with fewer dots don't necessarily have an advantage over the six-dotted sides. Just like how a child with four slips could be chosen over someone older with thirty slips to their name.

All you can do is hope that luck is on your side.

"You need to stop doing this," Cyanna says, retreating to the window to stare out at its serene view of my neighbors' ramshackle homes and the gravel road twisting out of District 9's poorest subdivision. Her voice is strangled, thick with emotion that sounds akin to fear. The skin under her eyes is puffy and transparent like paper. I can see the greenish-blue of her veins, and I think of the rivers of blood flowing inside them.

I don't need to ask her to elaborate. She's never failed to say everything that needs to be said.

"I know why you take all that tessera, and I also know it can't be all for just you. You think I don't notice how you always invite me and Claus over for dinner? How you insist we take the leftovers? You're taking extra tessera so me and Claus won't starve, aren't you?" she accuses sharply.

I don't have an answer.

Cyanna slams the wall, and the only picture I have of my father shakes with it. "Goddammit, Danny," she swears loudly. "Could you just drop the whole noble bullshit? I can take care of Claus and myself just fine."

I can feel my pulse in my temples, and I suddenly don't care if District 9's entire population can hear me screaming. "Take care of yourself! How? By having every Peacekeeper prick of Panem fuck you?" I pretend to consider it. "Actually, a whore can make a pretty solid income, if you work the day shift as well. But it looks like you've got that covered, Cyanna."

"Fuck you, Danny!" She screeches, taking my dad's picture from its mount and throwing it at my head. Cyanna has good aim, but my instinctive duck saves my skull from the shattered glass frame.

The entire world could burn down and the flames could still never melt the betrayed anger out of my best friend's eyes.

She's on the verge of tears as she whispers, "I do what I have to. And I know it's not the best decision I've ever made, but it's a sacrifice I'm willing to make for the best of my family. I thought you understood that, Danny. Or did you forget when your parents were executed in the Town Square for stealing a pocketful of grain so you could eat that night? I know I didn't forget, because that's when you became a part of me. Remember? Later that evening after your parents' bodies were cremated you came to my house and we sat out on the porch. You laid your head in my lap and cried yourself to sleep. That's when my mother was still alive, and she found two smooth stones down by the river so you could make markers for your parents. I helped you set them under the window box that held the red geraniums your mother had planted earlier that spring. And we sang silly sangs from our childhood because you couldn't bear holding a memorial. It would feel too much like saying goodbye. And I know how you hate goodbyes."

Is numb an emotion? Because it seems to be one of the few things I've been feeling lately.

Cyanna sees my slack jaw and the dull glaze over my eyes. Some sort of empathy must compute in her thoughts, because she walks back over to the bed, takes a seat on the sagging mattress, and hesitantly scoots closer to me. Her arm encircles my waist, but it isn't a provocative gesture. It's not one of her touches that sends my mind spinning far and wide; it doesn't make my body feel so light that it feels like I'll float up and up and up until my head hits the ceiling. Instead, it functions as the anchor that grounds me to reality, and I'm grateful for it.

She pushes strands of my long, shaggy hair behind my ears. "I'm sorry for getting angry at you, but it frustrates me that you haven't realized how much you mean to me. We fight, of course. Neither of us is perfect, but I've still come to love you like a brother despite it all. We've been through hell and back, but I can only hope you're here to stay. Because you're my family, Danny, in all the ways that matter. I can't even begin to imagine losing you, especially not in that way, not in the Games. I know you think you're protecting me and my little brother by taking tessera for us, but every slip of paper with your name on it that goes into the Reaping pool slowly shatters my heart to pieces. Please, don't do this anymore, Danny. Claus needs you too much. I need you."

All of my tears have been swallowed, but their absence has left my throat dry and scratchy. "I won't apply for extra tessera next year," I promise her, but my words are as hollow as my heart because I don't know when or how I'm going to stop lying to Cyanna.

The slight upward curve of her mouth hints at the beginning of a smile, but her eyes are still sad. "Thank you," she sighs, kissing me lightly on the cheek. "How do you feel about breakfast?"

"I don't think I can stomach anything," I tell her honestly.

A genuine smile illuminates Cyanna's face as she reaches under the bed and comes up with a glass bottle of some amber liquor. "Drink up," she orders slyly, "it'll make you feel better."

I decide to play along, because the somber attitude of the room is starting to exhaust me. I eagerly accept it from her, grasping the neck of the bottle as I take a swig. It burns more than the usual homemade cocktails Cyanna manages to smuggle from the market. But I'm definitely not complaining, because my head's pounding and I'm hoping to get buzzed before the Reaping in the Town Square. "Where'd you get this?" I ask, feeling the spirit's fire licking at my heart. It's comforting like the woolen blanket at the foot of my bed that my mother knitted for me as my eighth birthday present.

"Some of my clients really appreciate my services," she says carefully, obviously trying to dodge the discomfort that accompanies this topic.

I decide to drop it, sipping slowly from the bottle. The drink's smooth and strong, but it has a sweet aftertaste, almost like ambrosia. When a quarter of the bottle is gone, Cyanna snatches it from my hands and greedily allows the liquor to splash on her tongue.

We exchange a glance as she passes the bottle back to me. In a ridiculously soprano Capitol accent, Cyanna mocks the most despised mantra in the districts:

"May the odds be ever in your favor!"

**So... please review. Good or bad, I don't mind. Criticism is what keeps me writing! :) Anyway, tell me if I should continue. Also, I want to apologize to those of you who read this and hated it (there will probably be quite a few), but I wrote it... so get over it. It can't be unwritten. Cheers to y'all and happy April Fool's! **


	2. Reaping

After every drop of the booze is licked from the lip of the bottle, Cyanna and I are in a hurry to dress for the Reaping. We woke up an hour later than originally planned, and the conflict this morning set us back another thirty minutes. There's still so much to do before we can gather in the Town Square at 2:00 sharp for the public Reaping. First, I have to go with Cyanna back to her house to wake up Clause and get him fed and dressed. Bathing is an entirely different struggle for a special kid like her brother. Cyanna's fit for her short height, but she still needs help forcing Claus into the tub. He kicks and screams like a toddler at the mere mention of soap and water, but he's about the size of a man now. I'm the only one who can sling him over my shoulder and hold him down in the water while Cyanna wipes him down with a rag. He makes such a commotion with all of his crying and moaning we've had neighbors come knocking to tell us to shut him up or they'll take matters into their own hands.

So we're remaking the bed, trying to put the room back into order. The glass shards from the shattered frame of my dad's picture are shaken out of my sheets, and Cyanna irons our Reaping clothes with starch and steam. Unfortunately, our progress is still slow, because we can't seem to stop stepping on each others toes in our clumsy haste to get ready. My hand is nearly pressed under the hot iron when I lean against the aluminum-covered board for a moment to catch my breath. Cyanna slips on a rogue sock and lands hard on her butt on the wooden floor. With no carpet to pad her fall, she's cursing about everything under the sun (including the Capitol), and insists her tailbone is broken for the next ten minutes.

Our cleaning routine is a disaster, but we limp through it together until the only noticeable mess is the collection of dust particles on the windowsill. Then we don't waste any time getting dressed. I tuck a grey dress shirt into brown slacks and comb my shoulder-length black hair back against my scalp. The starched shirt collar is stiff and the worn brown loafers pinch my feet.

Cyanna wears the only dress she has. It was her mother's wedding dress. Of course, it's not much. The silk wedding gowns incrusted with jewels and sometimes little twinkling lights are a luxury only Capitol women can afford. Cyanna's dress is made of an ivory-colored fabric imprinted with little blue flowers that match her eyes. It brushes against her kneecaps, and you can tell how old it is from the frayed hem of the skirt. She pins her hair up and glances fleetingly at her reflection in the mirror before grabbing my hand.

"Ready?" She asks, pulling me along.

"I suppose," I grumble. We sweep through the kitchen area where everything looks the same as it did three years ago. My mother's set of copper tins are still mounted on the wall, virtually untouched, as if I'll wake up one morning and find her polishing them like she always used to do. The last coffee cup my father drank from is still sitting by the sink. A trail of sugar ants is marching up the ceramic sides, and I smile inwardly because I know my father would be having a fit at vermin in his home. He would personally sit there and squash each ant with his thumb until he was certain the entire colony was exterminated. Then he would search the cupboards for any survivors.

Cyanna kicks the door open when the corroded knob refuses to budge. The sky outside is overcast, with small shafts of sunlight breaking through monstrous grey clouds. Several families are gathered around one trash fire, talking nervously amongst themselves. The one-room houses flanking my own home are filled to capacity. Little faces peek out at Cyanna and me through parted shutters; the children who don't mind the grim atmosphere surrounding the adults sit outside on their porches, looking forlorn and anxious.

Chain link fences with coils of barbed wire on top surround the extensive wheat fields that are right across the road, separating the town and outlying neighborhoods of District 9 from the industrial region. An electric charge designed to permanently paralyze anyone stupid enough to come in contact with the fence runs through it day and night. A mile away you can see the metal exterior of the gristmill looking dull without the blinding sunlight bouncing off its surface. There are no columns of smoke rising around the building, no reek of burning fossil fuels. There will be no transport trains speeding in and out of the docking port today, only the one fancy train that will pull up at Town Square briefly to take two unlucky tributes to the Capitol. And I have to say I miss the distant clang of metal and workers shouting at each other. I miss working out in the fields. I can't wait until the Hunger Games and all the terror associated with them is over and life can pick up where it left off.

Hostile chickens peck at our feet as we walk by, but saunter off despondently when they realize their beaks can't penetrate the thick leather of our shoes. Cyanna's unusually quiet the entire time, leading me through the matrix of homes that all look the same. A particular residence can only be distinguished by its government-issued number code that's printed in bold black ink right above the front door. The gravel stops crunching under our tread when we stop at a house identified as 1957. The red bricks have been eroded from constant exposure to the elements, and the roof lists severely to the left. Smog from local factories has permanently stained the glass windows into a grimy blackish-grey. Despite its decrepit exterior, the inside of the house is well-kept and smells of sage.

Claus is already awake and waiting for us, sitting cross-legged with a puzzle spread across the floor. He's solved it thousands of times, but here he is trying to put it together again. He's holding an edge piece to his mouth thoughtfully, contemplating its placement as he mumbles a string of unintelligible words to himself. Cyanna kneels down next to him, and presses a kiss to his freckled cheek. She whispers something in his ear, and he allows the frayed and faded puzzle piece to slip through his fingers. He then fixes his grey wash eyes on mine. His stare would normally make most people uncomfortable - one eye spins around like a marble in a glass jar, focusing on nothing; the other eye's pupil has been leeched a milky white from one or another birth defect. But I've become accustomed to it, because I refuse to believe looks define someone. If you were too shallow to ignore Claus' deformed appearance, slurred speech, and episodes of insanity, then you'd be missing out. Because Claus is a person worth knowing. He's kind and nothing but good to his core. He doesn't understand deception or anger, and he would never intentionally hurt someone. But even Claus - the boy who loves riddles and knits woolen socks - has a dark side.

Although the majority of the time his nature strays no farther than gentle or childlike, there's still an unstable part of him that can make you cower with fear or fumble with a bolted door for escape. It leaks out of him in infrequent bursts of:

1. Shrieking at the top of his lungs.

2. Tearing at hair until patches of pasty scalp emerge.

3. Clawing at skin to free the imaginary bugs crawling there.

4. Hammering walls with bloody fists. And then you realize all the blood is coming from the oozing beds of flesh where fingernails used to be.

There are incidents where I honestly thought other people were endangered by Claus' presence. Actually, I can name quite a few, but one I remember in vivid detail goes like this:

I was helping Cyanna carry the groceries for that afternoon's dinner. Both of us knew it wasn't the wisest decision to leave Claus home alone during the day when he's the most active, but he'd been sleeping heavily at the time of our departure. We reasoned our trip wouldn't even take an hour and that carting the heavier groceries was really a two-person job. So we tucked a second blanket around Claus and hoped for the best.

We were several meters away from her house when we heard the screaming. Instinctively, we dropped our bags and dashed for Claus. The voice definitely belonged to him: it was baritone and hitched with frustration. His scream formed no words, only whoops and wails and the occasional "ma-ma-aa". The front door flung open on its creaky hinges, and we found Claus bumping his head against the wooden door frame with a dead wasp in his lap. There was a nasty gash on his forehead dripping wet, fresh blood, and the one-room interior of the home had been trashed. In a severe degree of hysteria, he'd held the wasp's papery wings in his fingers and tried to reattach them to its mangled body. And there was nothing we could do to comfort him. We could only sit there and pour scalding tea down his throat in an effort to calm him down and alleviate his shallow panting.

However, all of our efforts were always in vain. Nothing worked. Ever. We just had to wait until Claus came around and began babbling cheerful nonsense to us again.

But I'm relieved to say that after many years of trial and error, we have finally found the near perfect therapy for Claus' unstable moods and thoughts. It prevents an anxiety attack even before it can be triggered.

When an emotion is too intense for his mind to tackle, he copes by putting the same puzzle together and then taking it apart on an endless loop. The repetition and routine of solving only one puzzle helps make him feel safer, and then he might be more willing to verbally express what's troubling him to me or Cyanna. Coherent sentences are hard to draw from Claus, as he prefers to speak in fragments of complete thoughts or in odd animal-like sounds. But he still communicates with us, and the doctors say that's nothing short of a miracle for a child with such levels of unbalanced chemistry in his brain.

Cyanna whispers something else in his ear, and the maniac smile on Claus' face immediately deflates into a grimace. "R-reaping?" He says aloud in bewildered anguish, drool dribbling from his open mouth to his chin.

The weariness in Cyanna's facial features makes her look ten years older. "I'm afraid it is Reaping day. But Claus, I promise we only have to stay there for an hour at most so we can see the tributes get picked. Then we can go home and-"

But Claus refuses to hear any of it. His eyes are squeezed shut and his hands are covering his ears, as if blocking off his senses will make the rest of the world go away. "No no no no no no no no." He repeatedly mutters this single word, his entire body trembling.

Cyanna swiftly takes control the situation before it gets out of hand. She waves me over, and my feet are obeying as I suddenly find myself crouched beside Claus' huddled form. I rub soothing circles on Claus' back; he's so skinny I can feel the knobs of his spine beneath his shirt. Cyanna pulls his hands off his ears and pulls her little brother into an embrace. She rests her chin on his shoulder and tilts her head up so her lips brush his earlobe. Her eyes flutter closed, and she heaves a sigh, clutching Claus close to her as if she's afraid he'll be ripped from her arms.

With him being eligible for the Reaping, I suppose that's entirely possible.

But in that moment I see how much she loves her brother. He may not return the affection, but it touches me in an odd way because Cyanna doesn't care. She loves him without reason, without doubt. She knows there will never be a day where he'll tell her all the things she wants to hear or a time when he'll be there to protect her when she feels insecure. Claus will never be able to have a normal conversation with his sister or have the ability to tell her "I love you." He can only look at her in dazed confusion as she combs his hair or sings him songs or helps him untie all the knots in his shoelaces. He'll never learn how to appreciate the pure love and devotion his sister always sticks her neck out to prove. Because his mind didn't develop the way it was supposed to. He was given the innocence of a child but an incapability to understand love in the same way most people do. It's sad, really. But Cyanna wastes no time wallowing in the "should-have-beens" or the shitty deck of cards she was dealt. She just moves on and doesn't bother to attach herself to resentment or longing. When he's functional, she treats him like a normal person, tries to talk and spend time with him. Even on her worst days, she never yells or becomes frustrated with Claus when he does irritating things. And I can name many: him swimming in the public latrine until his clothes are soaked through with feces; screaming for twenty minutes straight when he stubs his toe; throwing his dinner around the room. But she just does what must be done without complaint.

"Claus," Cyanna says softly, "you need to be brave. Reaping Day is always terrible, but both you and I know Mom and Dad would want us to be there for whoever is picked. Think of the poor girl and boy who will have to be separated from their families. They need to know everyone back home supports them for whatever is to come in the arena. Don't you want them to know you care?"

It's impossible for Claus to be enlightened by those words, but he still must grasp the basic concept of what Cyanna's saying because he calmly bobs his head up and down and crumbles up the part of the puzzle that had already been assembled. Cyanna and I help him throw all the pieces back inside their box and ensure the puzzle is returned to its safe place in the kitchen cupboard. Then I sit with Claus at the rickety dining table as Cyanna heats up his breakfast. We keep Claus' portion small, but he still pushes half of the stew around the bowl, making exaggerated gagging noises when his spoon scoops up a dandelion head or other suspicious greens. Cyanna and I exchange a worried frown, because Claus hasn't been eating as much as we would expect for comfort. We don't push him to eat more or faster, but twenty minutes later Cyanna has to collect his bowl and rinse it out so we'll make it to the Reaping on time.

I catch her salvaging all the greens Claus refused to touch. I don't say anything. Food is food, after all.

Cyanna retreats from the kitchen to dump the bucket of dirty dish water, and I towel the clean bowl dry as I keep a close eye on Claus. She returns shortly with a rinsed bucket, setting it upside down so no rats can crawl inside and leave us little presents. We take no chances, especially not after we found Claus bent over the rim that one time, licking poop pellets off of his fingers.

Gently prying the bowl from my hands, Cyanna inspects its ceramic surface for any remaining plaque. As she does this, I notice her mother's engagement ring glinting on one of her fingers. The circular silver stone embedded in its center catches the light, reflecting weak light in all directions off the stone's fractured surface. The ring itself is modest but beautiful, with one slender band forged from a pink-tinted silver and an inscription that's so worn it's illegible. After a minute of breathing on the ceramic and wiping it with her elbow until it gleams, Cyanna decides the bowl is clean enough. She sets it down and turns back to me. "Bath time?" She suggests in a whisper hopefully quiet enough to evade Claus' keen ears.

I nod in acquiescence, and refill the large tin bucket to the waterline that cuts through the thick layer of grime on the interior of the tub. Cyanna strips the sweaty night clothes from Claus' body. Despite the foul odor that burns my nostrils over on the other side of the room, she still folds the filthy clothes up again and retires them to Claus' drawer for future use.

Soap is expensive, so laundry day comes once in a blue moon. Besides, the people of District 9 have four changes of clothes at most, so we just wear our clothes out until they're practically a second skin. Most people can't afford to wash more than one load of laundry every two weeks, anyway. So why have good hygiene when everyone around you stinks too?

But everyone's fresh and clean on Reaping Day. The Capitol sees to that.

When Claus is stark naked, I help him down into the lukewarm bath water. Some water spills over the side, and Claus looks no less than displeased as the damp tips of his hair drip water down his back. But, surprisingly, he makes no fuss at the soggy conditions, though his features remain screwed up tight the entire time we rinse him down and scrub him. He even manages to entertain himself with a short piece of string he pulled free from the sleeve of his sister's dress.

When the bath water is murky and floating with pieces of debris, we finally help him out of the tub and wrap him in a threadbare towel. Cyanna dresses Claus in his Reaping clothes: a light green dress shirt that hangs loosely over checkered slacks. Claus has sprout up greatly in height since he was thirteen, so now the slacks are so short on him they fall three inches above his ankles. The front of his dress shirt is missing two buttons; quilting pins now hold the gaps closed. It's been several years since Cyanna has updated Claus' Reaping wardrobe.

We ease Claus down on the bed after he's fully dressed. He sits in the middle of a pillow, wiggling around to get comfortable before Cyanna and I add the finishing touches to his Reaping metamorphosis. As she ties Claus' shoes, I trim his hair quickly, watching as snippets of light brown locks scatter in a circle around my feet. Cyanna pinches his sallow cheeks to bring color to them, and I comb my fingers through his neatly clipped hair. A halo of moisture has formed on the areas of exposed pillow not covered by Claus' butt, beads of water dripping from the wet ends of washed hair.

Cyanna asks me for the time. I look down at my father's watch strapped around my wrist. I frown. The little hand is on the one and the long hand is nearly on the three. "A quarter after one," I say.

"We should get going," she sighs, not without resentment. "Help me with Claus."

* * *

Outside, the clouds have all dissolved after the heat of a May day crept in it around noon. Now the sky is a wash of gentle blue light. Dandelion spores from nearby meadows dance in a breeze that sends District 9's fields of amber grain rippling like waves in a mighty sea. Everyone bumps shoulders as all the people who live at the southern end of the district walk along the same gravel path northward to the Town Square. At different twists in the path that feed into separate subdivisions, numerous families, even the elderly, stand there waiting at the curb. When they see us approaching, they join our mob and fill into the empty spaces of our ranks. No one says anything, though. The Reaping always casts a grim atmosphere. No one has the appetite to be spoonfed the juiciest gossip about the distant Capitol or even its notorious President Snow; no one craves social conquests or small talk on a day like this one. The people of our district prefer to suffer in silence rather than confide in each other. That's why 9 always sinks into the background during the Hunger Games. We're quiet and withdrawn, so sponsors almost always overlook us in the arena.

It's a shame, actually. Every couple years we get a tribute that's a fighter, but no in the Capitol gives us the time of day. 9's tributes, if they're not killed in the bloodbath, never make it to the final eight. Exposure or another tribute gets to them first; all because no sponsor is willing to spend the money on weapons or food for a district they consider "lackluster" or "boring".

Every man, woman, and child seems to be lost in their own world. The parents all wonder which of their loved ones might be chosen. The children consider how high their own stakes may be, or even those of their siblings. Either way, they're consumed in silence by that fear. Their eyes betray their emotion, though. I can see it. But you have to look closely, otherwise you'd never notice the deepening of wrinkles around eyes or the pinpricks of tears in the corners of a twelve-year-old's eyes. Because when my people are upset or afraid, they appear dead. I'm sure that's how I look, too. We all just trudge along with our hands down by our sides and faces as expressionless as stone.

I jolt in surprise as I feel an unexpected warmth gliding over my skin. When I glance down, I see Cyanna has knit our fingers together, gripping my hand tightly in hers. I lift my bowed head and I'm suddenly immersed in her blue eyes. She's turned her head so she's looking at me, smiling so sadly, so kindly. And my heart aches because I hate finding a smile so tinged with grief so extraordinarily beautiful. But it makes her eyes sparkle and I'm a sucker for beautiful things.

"The sky matches your eyes today," I whisper to her. She kisses my cheek and says nothing.

When we reach the square, our mob separates into different clusters as they all file in the Town Square. The adults and their children, not old enough to be eligible for the Reaping yet, dodge Peacekeepers and claim little plots around the perimeter to huddle together with their family. Those of the adults who are alone in the world make a great show of scuffling around, hands deep in pockets, kicking gravel, placing bets on whose names will be drawn. Then there's a Peacekeeper ambling around with a bucket full of confiscated liquor bottles. If you want to get drunk, you better do it at home. The Capitol audience finds it quite scandalous to see district citizens guzzling moonshine on live television.

When Cyanna and I reach the sign-in desk, she clasps our hands together and reaches in for a slow kiss. Claus is behind us, scratching his ears, and I decide now is a better time to wish each other luck than never. So I place a hand on her lower back, gently guiding her body towards mine. I ignore the scornful glares people throw our way. They know who Cyanna is and what she does. I want to yell at them because whenever I'm with her, she doesn't act like that at all. She's not that kind of a person; they're just to rash to get to know her first before coming to a conclusion. I wish I could tell them that what people do behind closed doors doesn't necessarily define them.

It's painful and difficult to pull away, even when the Peacekeepers begin hollering at us to get in line so our fingers can be pricked. Our lips just seem to cling together like molten wax to a thread. When we do finally pull away, we still press our foreheads together for another moment, and I drink in Cyanna's scent. It's sweet, pure and clean like the earth after it rains. So that's why I had to scrape all those lilac petals out of the bottom of the tub after she bathed last night.

"See you later," I say softly, my fingers slipping out of her grasp. Cyanna pivots on her heel, her stare landing on Claus, who is busy multiplying on his fingers. She tackles him in an embrace, standing on her tip-toes so she can wind her arms around her brother's neck. He stares at his sister in bewilderment as she rocks him slightly back and forth, her arms tightening, squeezing, desperate not to let go. But she has to, and she knows this. She quickly tells him he'll be okay and that she loves him before staggering away in a daze.

Soon of all us are signed in and standing in different roped-off sections based on gender and age.

I stayed with Claus and held his hand for comfort as he got his finger pricked for identification, but that still didn't save anyone the embarrassment of his blubbering. Every time I managed to calm him down, he'd see the blood oozing from the small puncture in his index finger and start trembling all over again. The boys are all groaning and snickering as I pass by with Claus latched to my side, who is, of course, red-faced and teary-eyed with snot streaming down his face. Some of the younger, ignorant assholes throw insults my way, yelling nasty things about me and Cyanna's family. They only know of Cyanna by rumor - bits and pieces from their parents - but it's worrying how some of the cutting remarks they jeer are remarkably accurate.

I scan the seventeen year-old-girls' section for Cyanna. Some encouragement couldn't hurt, but there are too many dark-haired heads that could belong to my best friend. Luckily, I keep a level head long enough to deliver Claus to a clump of fifteen-year-old boys. Their necks are straining against their stiff, starched collars to get a good look at the "Child-Man", but no one seems really keen on confronting Claus. This particular group of boys are so short and emaciated none of the punches they can possibly throw will make a dent, anyway. I decide that's fine for now.

I scurry up the wide aisle that leads to a temporary stage set up in front of the Justice Building. Gravel spits out from under the soles of my shoes, and I sincerely hope a piece hits District 9's escort in the eye. She's a bizarre, frightening specimen of a Capitol woman, with plastic blue hair that stands straight up in a frizzy halo around her head almost as if she'd been electrocuted. A couple years back, she got her skin dyed a dark grey, then had the structure of every one of her bones tattooed on the surface of her skin in luminescent white ink. And when her tattoos glow in the dark, she is literally a walking skeleton. She's demonstrated this quite a few times.

Her name is Imogene Hoyle, I think. She's never been promoted to any district higher than 9, but she doesn't seem to care. She is perfectly content with the challenge of driving the weaker tributes insane during the brief time she has with them. Of course, she can't hurt them. No, she'd be executed for laying one finger on any tribute, even if first provoked. But she is free to be as cruel and unsympathetic to them as she wants. I've heard that with Imogene as an escort, the mind games begin even before you enter the arena. She uses every tactic under the sun to make you undermine yourself and feel utterly miserable your last few days alive. I feel bad for whoever will get reaped.

I limbo under the velvet rope and stand up next to another seventeen-year-old boy who I recognize from school. His face has a sickly greenish luster, and he puffs his cheeks out like he's going to vomit. Under my breath, I crack a joke about Imogene's gauzy, neon-pink nightmare of a dress, and he gives me the faintest of smiles.

There's five minutes left until two o'clock. The heat of the day is made unbearable by the claustrophobia of the packed square. I've already sweat through my shirt and my throat is so dry from thirst it's painful to swallow. So to get my mind off of my discomfort, I focus my attention instead on the temporary stage and the people on it. Mayor Tager is the only female mayor out of all the districts of Panem. She's a thin woman, with a wide forehead and skin pulled tight around protruding joints. Her hair's so light a blonde it's almost white. Perched on the edge of the chair left of the mayor is District 9's only surviving victor, Marian Green. Marian is a lovely lady, with laughing hazel eyes and brown hair nicked down to a fine fuzz on her skull. She's only in her early thirties, but the premise of the Reaping has seemed to age her overnight. Even from among the audience, I can see the deep crow's feet around her eyes and the sagging of her skin as she frowns.

There's a microphone clipped to the hem of Mayor Tager's polyester-mix skirt. When the mayor detaches her bare legs from the sweaty plastic seat of her chair, it makes a barely audible moist, sucking noise. But the microphone's high-tech diaphragm doesn't miss a thing. It captures the low-frequency acoustic waves and amplifies them throughout the square so the embarrassing sound can be heard by all. No one giggles, though. Not even when we see the large red welts on the back of Tager's thighs as she mounts the podium. Anyone who laughs on Reaping day will have a bone to pick with the entire district. Actually, not just a bone, but the entire skeleton, too.

Mayor Tager has begun reading the usual Treaty of Treason speech in a discorded monotone. I let the words skim the surface of my thoughts and dissolve like sugar in hot tea. I have no desire to listen to them again. It's just the same old Panem history I could recite in my sleep. It's always the same finger-pointing at the districts for the Dark Days. So I zone out, staring down at my shoes and counting the number of eyelets. I only look up when I hear a rough and gritty voice that sounds identical to the delivery train that scrapes along 9's dilapidated tracks - a horrible cacophony of metal-on-metal grinding. Imogene has already introduced herself to Panem and is now squabbling on about how she is so grateful to be the escort for District 9 for seven years now. I just wish she'd shut up and get on to the reapings.

"Now, I know we're all excited," Imogene rasps, "so let's not delay any longer!" She clicks over to the girls' glass reaping ball in ridiculous seven inch heels that bend her ankles in all the wrong directions. Her fingers caressing over the thousands of slips of papers, she pretends to pick one up, only to drop it a second later with a giggle of "oops". It's so silent you could hear a pin drop. Although Imogene doesn't flaunt it with a smirk, you can can totally tell she's intentionally wasting time to aggravate us. It's working. I see one man out with the other adults rolling up his sleeves, as if preparing to fight. One mother with five young children glued to her side scowls at the escort.

Finally, after an entire charade of dramatic sighing, Imogene pulls one slip free and mounts the podium again. I scan the margins frantically for Cyanna, dreading it will be her name that tumbles from that abhorrent Capitol woman's lips. I can't find her. My palms sweat, and I'm praying praying praying that everything will work itself out.

"Elysia Bucci!" Imogene announces into the microphone. A paunchy girl of fourteen with curling blonde hair marches up the straight path to the stage. Tear after tear is streaking down her ruddy cheeks, and her entire body is trembling. She's tall, but built like the nesting dolls Claus keeps under his pillow: broad-shouldered with ample hips. She definitely looks strong, but her delicate, uncalloused hands make me doubt she's much of a fighter.

Elysia's about to mount the stone steps when there's a lone anguished cry amongst the silent families gathered around the perimeter. A middle-aged woman pushes past a sea of arms and legs and small children and comes charging at Elysia. The Peacekeepers make a grab for the frantic woman, but she evades their hands, managing to make it all the way to her daughter. The two slam hard into each other as they embrace, the mother sobbing hysterically into her daughter's shoulder. Within moments a squadron of Peacekeepers have arrived to tow the woman away. She fights tooth and claw, thrashing as they confine her. But, of course, she ultimately loses and the white-armored men drag her away, ignoring her pleas and screams to hold her baby.

As soon as her mother is out of sight, Elysia completely breaks down. Wet, painful sobs resonate from deep within her chest and fill the air with their sorrow. The tirade of tears spilling over lashes threatens to flood the Square. Imogene clears her throat impatiently. "Hurry along, darling," she insists, helping Elysia onto the stage. Elysia's pressing the heels of her hands over her eyes, breathing shallowly. And it is in that moment that I'm thankful that it's not Cyanna standing there as a tribute, that I'm not the one sobbing over her inevitable fate. But then the I feel awful for wishing such a fate on someone else, especially a fourteen-year-old-girl. I want to fold in on myself for such a shameful thought, but there's no time for cowardice and empathy. Imogene's got the Reaping back in full swing. She trots back over to the microphone, and breezes cheerfully, "Well, that was quite eventful. Just image how much of a tear-jerker that was back in the Capitol! Anyway, on to the boys!"

I shiver as Imogene plunges her hand down into the boys' ball, fishing around for the slip of paper that just feels warmer than the rest. The one that contains the name of a tribute she hopes will broker the most entertainment. She lifts her molten amber gaze and peers out into the audience, holding us all in suspense once again. My hair raises on the back of my neck as those loathing eyes of hers meet mine, and what happens next I'm hoping is just my imagination. She smirks at me.

It couldn't be. Shouldn't be. She doesn't know who will get picked.

But it's still in that moment I know the odds aren't in my favor.

At last she snatches the fated paper out from the thousands and carries it high in the air like a trophy. She opens it and...

"Daniel Bernhardt!"

No one screams for me like Elysia. Where's Cyanna? Claus? I'm falling falling falling but that can't be true because I can feel the ground beneath my feet. I careen towards the stage alone, feeling faint and about to throw up in the dirt. I feel my heart shattering like a glass jar, and I barely hear anything Imogene says to me as I take my place beside my fellow district partner.

Alone.

A - L - O - N - E

Death.

D - E - A - T - H

There's only way to spell these words, each given their own definition, but I can't decipher what it really means to die or to be alone. Even when my parents died, I was never truly abandoned. I always had Cyanna, and now I will never see her again. I will die in that arena, isolated and insane and deprived of happiness.

But I mostly think about the family I will leave behind:

The hotheaded girl who screamed and kicked and struggled to love me when I made terrible mistakes. The generous girl who kept me by her side and gave me a home when I had none. The brave girl who lets men do horrible things to her so those she cares about can eat for a week. The kind girl who is always around the corner with a cup of water for me after my most tenuous race, to encourage me that not all is lost.

C - Y - A - N - N - A

I will lose her.

Then there's the playful boy who builds forts out of chairs and blankets. The creative boy who dances with his sister to the music inside his head. The compassionate boy who feeds his ration bread to the malnourished dog down the street, who wipes away Cyanna's tears and licks the salt off of his fingers. The quiet boy who spends more time in his imagination than in reality.

C - L - A - U - S

I will lose him.

I shake hands with Elysia. She shivers at the coldness of my skin and quickly withdraws her hand. She's stopped crying, thankfully, but her eyes are still red-rimmed and she has to swallow back tears every minute. We turn back to the audience. As the anthem begins blaring through rustic speakers, I finally catch sight of Cyanna. Her face is pale and stricken, but no moisture trickles down her cheeks. Her eyes are dry, too, and I'm hoping she's taking this better than I am. She stands stiffly, paralyzed, biting down hard on her thumb. When she notices my attention is fixated on her, she takes her hand out of her mouth and extends it to me, as if reaching out could close the distance between us. There is a crescent of bite marks on the fleshy pad of her thumb from where her canine teeth tore into the tissue.

Placing my hand over my heart, I mouth to her "stay strong."

She turns away and crouches down on the ground so I won't see her crying.

**Please review, good or bad! I promise you, I have a lot of violence and action in store for the later chapters that cover the games! So please stick around!**

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